Relics
The sign “Civil War Relics” pulls him in,
eyes eager as though he might spot blood
still clinging to one of the blades.
What is the fascination with things that kill so efficiently?
My father collects guns—pistols, rifles, shotguns,
single-actions, repeaters, you name it—
relishing the ways he could bring a man down.
He opens the unlocked cabinet to show every guest
through his home, says he wouldn’t hesitate
to use one, no sir, wouldn’t hesitate at all.
And this man, headed up that steep stairwell
to the relic room, to view those implements
of our eagerness to take life…
I sense his fascination, feel it pulling,
tempting me with the ability to kill
or be killed.
Just one breath, one twitch of a finger.
I wonder…a hat pin, a frying pan,
a well-placed lug wrench—
why are they missing from the relic rooms?